Well, here you are. You could never figure out for the life of you why your father was so insistent on you marrying. Your work is always your priority, always has, always will. But, here you are, in Italy, sitting in front of young Maddy Markovic, who turned twenty a week ago. Her long chocolate hair flows over her shoulders.

"What are we meant to talk about?" She asks, her sweet voice cuts through the noise of the Italian restaurant like a knife through skin. She taps on her undrunk wine glass, expecting an answer.